Czech It Out

In the dead hours, Absinthe, some flower and dried mushrooms. A thinking animal, too tired to write anything, apart from the veiled tincture of Murano glass. Splayed open, flayed on panels: a three-act play.

Let us shatter the night.

Let us cut the silence with silence sharp and clear.

There are bubbles congregating in the basement, around a traditional song. A pale horse, squandered paper thin, over the brink of the desert, made of white sand and white bones.

The blue lights emitting from my screen is a thousand pixels of broken membrane. Scorched letters on le chèque blanc. Blood is melting chocolate.

To those lungeing at the end of the character arch, I drink to your health. All the lost opportunities will gather back together, somehow.

Life is short, time is long.

2020.04.

By Aran Meredith.